Telling Soda
by lulusgardenfli
Summary: Jo Curtis has some important news to tell little Sodapop Curtis. One-Shot.


**A/N: This little ditty has been hanging on my hard drive for at least two months...**

* * *

I'm sitting, or rather sticking, to our worn, brown sofa. A few of the springs on the far end are missing, so the couch appears to slope at an angle. My dress is glued to my body and I squirm, trying to find a comfortable position, but let's be honest, at this stage in my pregnancy there is no such thing as a "comfortable" position. Not in this weather.

I look down, sweat is streaming from my armpits. I'm beginning to think _Stopette's_ promise to _'poof away the perspiration_ ' may be faulty advertisement. Of course, the fact that I weigh approximately 400 lbs and it's 1000 degrees outside probably doesn't help matters either.

My baby is sitting next to me. He's two and a half. At least, I think he's sitting next to me. He's hidden besides my ample stomach.

Who knows, at this point I could have the entire starting line up of the Sooners on my couch and I still don't think I would be able to tell. Goodness knows my living room _looks_ like an entire football team is camping out in my house.

 _OUCH_

He accidentally elbows me in the belly, right above the spot where his little brother is jabbing me.

 _Great, it's beat up on Mommy day._

"Honey, sit down. That hurts Mommy." I close my eyes and try to keep the anger and frustration out of my voice, he _is_ only two. But this weather and his incessant bouncing up and down does not make it easy.

"Sowwy!"

Having grown up in a family with three rowdy brothers myself, I figure that this is just the first of many punches, kicks and slaps between these boys. I don't know for sure if this baby is going to be another boy, but I feel like he is.

He's going to be our last. I adore my kids, but I don't like being pregnant, at all. I cannot wait for my body to be all mine again.

Soda is wearing nothing but a cowboy hat, underwear and a grin. He's never without it. If it was left up to him, Soda wouldn't even be wearing the underwear. He's a free spirit.

"It's hawt, Mama!"

I want to tell him that he should try carrying a watermelon in his belly while wearing a cotton dress, and then we'll talk.

Instead, I just blow on his little bare shoulders and fan his face with the Sports section. "I know, baby, I know."

I am *this* tempted to take off my dress, underwear and bra and walk around my living room naked. Soda wouldn't mind, my husband would love it, but it would gross out my six year old. So fully dressed, hot and heavy and grumpy, I remain glued to my seat.

Darrel walks in from the kitchen balancing two glasses of iced tea in his right hand and a homemade cold compress in his left. He hands me the ice wrapped in a dish towel and one of the glasses of iced tea. Darrel is not big on sweeping romantic gestures. In fact, I hate getting flowers from him since I only get flowers when he really messed up; but these tiny acts of everyday love, my man has got them down pat.

"Hey, there pard'," Darrel got down at Soda's level and drew his finger gun at our son. Soda broke out into giggles and tries to imitate his dad's gun draw. Soda is at that stage where he's always trying imitate everyone around him. Darrel tickles Soda's little Buddha belly, eliciting even louder shrieks of laughter from our son.

My sons are only 2 and 6, but both of them worship Darrel like he's the Lone Ranger, Superman, Mickey Mantle and Abraham Lincoln all rolled up into one. Darrel, who grew up with few good role models ended up taking to fatherhood like the stars take the sky.

I'm still adjusting to being a mother. I love my children beyond all else, but sometimes I feel like motherhood is a bulky, itchy dress and no matter how good people say I look, it just doesn't fit quite right.

No. I'm sorry. I should stop thinking these things. What is wrong with me? I'm awful. Do you know how many women would chop off their arm just to have a family like mine? I have two wonderful boys, a new baby on the way and an amazing husband. I _am_ blessed.

Besides, I know what it's like to lose a child. Our first baby. A girl. Right before Darry. She was born dead. I know that pain that exists beyond all words and feelings. I know.

I don't dare voice my opinions to Darrel. I don't dare tell him that as much as I love our boys I wish we would have waited. I don't dare tell him that there are some nights where I secretly dream of going back in time to when we were defined as Jo and Darrel and not Mommy and Daddy. I don't tell him that I miss _us._

Soda looks a bit like me, but he is Darrel's son through and through. They are always living for the moment. They find the fun and sheer joy in everything. I love that. They are indestructible.

I take a gulp of the iced tea, it's refreshing, although if i'm being honest what I really want right now is wine. White wine. I look down at my drink, it's almost halfway gone. Without missing a beat Darrel takes his near-full glass of tea and refills my cup. He always gives me everything he has.

For the first time I notice that there are beads of sweat running down his neck. He works hard for us. Quite frankly, I don't know how he can be so good humored and relaxed when he puts in 10-12 hour days of backbreaking labor. I know that I'm not exactly Miss. Sunshine and Lollipop.

I hand him the cold compress but he shakes his head and gives me a smile.

"It's for you, babe." My man has the sexiest drawl. Our eyes lock, and for a second, despite the fact that I feel unattractive, hot, bloated and moody, I want to drag him to our bedroom and screw the hell out of him. Instead, I straighten out my dress and give him a grateful 'thank you.'

It's time to tell Soda the news.

Darry already knows of course. "Oh, neat" was his reaction when we first told him, and then he went back to building with his Tinker-Toys. A few minutes later he ran up to me, full of worry, eyes large and mouth hanging open. "Mommy, if the baby is a girl will I have to share a room with _Soda_?"

 _Ah, brotherhood._

Back on the couch Soda looks up at me then up at Darrel.

"There's a baby inside of Mommy. Soon, you're going to have a little brother or sister, isn't that exciting?!"

I know he has no concept of time yet, but I nod vigorously and hope he will pick up on the cue that he is supposed to be happy that his role as baby of the family is being usurped by the latest Curtis.

Soda takes the hint. He bounced up and down on the couch and clapped his hands above his head. "Yayy!" Soda really is a happy little bug most of the time. If you think that comes from me, I have a house on the moon I want to sell you.

Darrel tickles Soda's belly again. "That's my cowboy. You're gonna be a big brother, just like Darry."  
Ah, the magic phase.

Soda flashes a genuine, big, dimpled grin. He has his Daddy's grin.

Ever since Soda Curtis was old enough to have dreams and hobbies beyond just eating, sleeping and pooping, he wanted to be like his big brother. I don't blame him; Darry _is_ an amazing kid.

"Dawwy! I'm big brotha!" Soda squeals at the top of his lungs.

I press my hands against my ears. He got _that_ from his dad as well.

"Well, if the neighbors didn't know you were expectin' they sure do now!" Darrel flashes a Soda-like grin at me.

"I think the whole town heard that." Darry deadpanned and looked up from his "Lone Ranger" comic book.

I try to smile at him. If Soda is Darrel's carbon copy in terms of personality, then Darry is mine; he is well behaved, smart, athletic, protective, serious, hardworking, stubborn and the most cynical and sarcastic six year old I have _ever_ run across.

Darry is my baby and I love him with such a deep love I can't even put it into words; but it unnerves me.

Today, over the breakfast table, after Darrel finished reading the Funnies that only he found funny, he announced that "we're due for another scorcher today folks! One-hundred degrees!"

"Great, just what we need, more heat. I'm sure gonna love this," Darry rolled his eyes and Darrel cracked up and tousled our son's hair. I smirked. I was thinking the exact same thing. But, that worried me. Should a six year old be this sarcastic? Was this normal? Should a six year old be a little mini adult?

I wouldn't be this worried, but I blame myself for his cynicism. He got it from me. Within a short period of time everything fell apart for me: our first baby died, Darrel's brother came home from the war a changed man, my brother, Daniel, never came home at all. I couldn't help but see the world through jaded eyes.

I was raised a Quaker and I grew up believing that Light of God dwelled within the soul of every human being; but seeing how much pain and evil there was in the world, I had a hard time seeing the Light in anyone, especially myself.

It was Darrel and Darry who helped me out of my blues, but I worry that I somehow passed on my jadedness to my son. As if maybe all of those months where I did everything like an automaton impacted my little boy in a way that I never realized?

It's another worry that I've kept secret from Darrel.

I never used to be this neurotic until I became a mother. I looked at Darry, running his fingers over the words in his book, sounding out the unfamiliar words. Motherhood really doesn't get easier with time.

* * *

The next morning, to my surprise, Soda still remembered that he was going to be a big brother. I'm in my kitchen leaning against the door listening to my boys in our living room.

He wants to know where the baby is.

"In Mommy's belly," Darry explains for about the 100th time that morning in a patient voice. I'm pleasantly surprised. Darry loves Soda, but Soda's pestering can drive Darry nuts. Heck, it drives me nuts at times.

"The stork will take the baby out of mommy's belly."

"What's stoke?"

"STORK. A stork is a doctor that helps delivers babies. My friend told me all about it." Darry sounds so assured and confident in his answer and I'm biting on my lip to keep from laughing.

"Where baby now?"

Oh, Lordy not THIS again.

"In Mommy's belly, the baby will come out and mommy will be skinny again."

 _Dear Lord_ , that boy of mine is patient! Now that he didn't get from me, _or_ from Darrel for that matter.

"Weally?" I could just picture Soda's large doe eyes bugging out of their sockets. "Mommy's fat."

I chortled. _So much for my angelic baby boy._

"Yup, and," Darry's voice moved to a whisper, "Mommy will be nice again."

Soda clapped.

I rolled my eyes.

"Don't put that in your mouth, Soda," I heard Darry say in a commanding, firm voice.

Jes..

Without even thinking, I leap out of the kitchen and into the living room, landing right in front of a bewildered looking Soda.

"SODAPOP CURTIS, TAKE THAT OUT OF YOUR MOUTH NOW!"

He gave me the saliva covered Lincoln Log and a pout.

Soda lips quivered, "I hope baby come soon!"

Darry crosses his arms, "I told him not to put it in his mouth. He don't listen to me."

"Join the club," I tell him with a sigh.

* * *

Soda spent the next few days playing 'big brother,' holding onto his teddy bear like he was a mama ape in the wild. Whether he was jumping up on the sofa or running through the kitchen, Soda held onto his 'baby brother.'

After a week of Soda's love, that teddy bear was missing an eye, a nose, and part of its arm was drenched in saliva. That's Soda. Like his father, he loves with everything he has, and if he rips you apart or smothers you with his love, well, that's just a price you pay.

Soda is dragging the scraggly thing behind him as he toddles from the kitchen to the living room.

I just hope he doesn't love my baby that much.

Darry is eating his Cheerios.

"Jesus Christ, I hope Soda don't do that to the real baby." Darry raised his eyebrow at me, my little echo. I KNOW Darry shouldn't take the Lord's name in vain, but it's nice that someone gets me. Even if it is my six year old.

I wrap my arms around Darry. It's hard to give him a hug when I feel and look the Good Year Blimp, but he sinks into me. I look into his eyes, the same eyes that helped save my life all these years ago when I thought I had lost it all.

"You're a funny kid, Darry."

He shrugs his shoulder, "thanks." Like me, Darry is uncomfortable getting compliments. I suppose it's my Midwest upbringing.

"And," I sniff his hair and whisper into his head, "I love you very much."

He doesn't say anything at first, he just smiles. He gives me a real grin. He has a beautiful smile, it takes my breath away.

"I love you too mommy."

And then he's back to happily eating his Cheerios. Unlike Darrel and even Soda, neither one of us are big on being emotionally expressive. Heck, with the exception of my husband and boys, I always feel very awkward hugging people or showing my feelings in public.

I look at my son, my little guy who can see the absurdities in life and who isn't afraid to point them out. My little guy who realizes even at his age that you can't be perky or happy all the time. My little guy who gets _that_ part of me, maybe even in a way that Darrel doesn't.

I feel tears well up in my eyes. I don't know why I'm crying. Maybe it's my pregnancy hormones, maybe it's this heat; but deep down I know it's my beautiful-smart-amazing-cynical six year old that brings me to tears of longing and thanksgiving.

* * *

 **A/N:**

 **S.E. Hinton owns.**

 **Stopette was an antiperspirant whose famous catch phrase was "poofs away the perspiration."**

 **Thank you so much for reading and for any reviews. :)**

 **Hope you enjoyed!**


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